


dancing to the music of you

by zohh



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23545186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zohh/pseuds/zohh
Summary: “Ah, yes,” Delia says quietly.Patsy is about to ask what’s wrong when Delia very calmly says, “I’m going to pass out.”
Relationships: Delia Busby/Patsy Mount
Comments: 11
Kudos: 75





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> sup y'all.

She’s typing up notes from a chart when she hears a knock on the doorframe and an unmistakable voice saying, “Hello, sweetie.”

Patsy doesn’t look up. “What do you want, Trix?”

Trixie walks over to the desk and leans against it, crossing her arms. “I am absolutely  _ dying _ for a coffee right now, but,” she sighs dramatically, “I have a patient waiting for me.”

“You’re an addict,” Patsy says.

“Better than cigarettes,” Trixie responds shortly.

Patsy opens her mouth wide. “One time in university and you’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“If by ‘one time’ you mean for an entire semester in our second year, then yes.”

Patsy enters the last of her notes and glowers up at Trixie. “You have to be nice to me if you want me to get you coffee.”

Trixie claps her hands together. “You’re an angel.”

“I know,” Patsy says, smirking. She stands up and pushes her chair into the desk. “Medium or large?”

Trixie bounces up from where she was leaning. “Medium will do. Oh, and get an iced caramel one for Barbara. And Phylis and Shelagh would like tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“So now I’m everyone’s errand girl?” Patsy asks as they walk out of the office and into the hallway of the clinic.

Trixie cocks her head and grins. Patsy gives up the fight.

“At least be a dear and grab my purse for me.”

* * *

There’s already a line snaked around the display case when she walks into the Silver Buckle, and she inwardly groans as the door closes behind her with a ring. Curse Trixie and her newfound caffeine addiction.

She pulls her phone out from the pocket of her scrubs and looks down, scrolling to Trixie’s last text message with everyone’s orders.

Medium coffee with vanilla creamer for Trixie. Small iced coffee with more caramel than necessary for Barbara. Breakfast tea with a dash of milk, no sugar for Phylis. Earl Grey with honey for Shelagh. Small coffee, black, for Dr. Turner.

Patsy sighs and pockets her phone. The line inches forward as a customer walks out with a to-go cup and a small paper bag. Shouldn’t these people be getting their morning teas and coffees at one of those large chains?

A small boy, no older than five or six, squirms in front of her and loudly says, “Mummy, I want a danish!”

The mother looks down at her son and says, “Sh! We can share one if you behave.” 

The young boy wipes his nose with the sleeve of his sweater and grins.

Behind Patsy, the door opens and closes with another ringing sound and she glances behind her shoulder to see a woman walk in with a dog walking next to her. The dog is wearing a red harness with a patch bearing the words DO NOT PET in black and white letters. Patsy wills herself to stop staring and faces forward as the line continues to move.

The boy in front of her, however, snaps his head around and his eyes grow wide. He tugs at his mother’s dress. “Mum! Mummy!”

“What!” The mother swipes at her son’s hands.

“That lady brought her dog!”

They both stare directly at the dog, who is standing in front of the woman, side pressed right up against the front of her legs. The woman gives a small smile but doesn’t say anything and the dog doesn’t move. Patsy notices dimples indented in her cheeks and nearly swoons before reminding herself that staring at strangers is rude.

Another man who is seated at a table looks up and says, “Oi! You can’t bring a dog in here!”

The woman smiles again and says, “Actually, I can! She’s working.” The dog steps forward as the line moves closer to the counter but otherwise ignores everyone else in the cafe. The man opens his mouth to say something else but one of the workers behind the counter says, “Service dogs are allowed, sir. It’s no problem.”

Patsy looks away and grabs her phone, shooting a quick text message to Trixie that there’s a line and she’ll be a bit longer.

It’s another few minutes before Patsy reaches the counter, the young boy and his mother hurrying out of the store with their danish.

“Big order, I’m afraid,” Patsy says.

The older gentleman taking her order looks at her scrubs and says, “Buying for the whole clinic, eh?”

Patsy gives a short laugh and then rattles off the drinks, opening up her bag to pull out her wallet.

She waits at the end of the counter for the drinks, looking idly around her as the line starts to dwindle. The woman and her dog step to the side, standing just a meter or so away from Patsy. She lets herself glance down at the dog again and sees another patch, this one with the words SERVICE DOG in the same black and white letters.

“Order for Patsy! Order for Delia!”

Patsy’s cardboard tray of drinks is up on the counter next to a single iced coffee. She lifts her bag over her shoulder and reaches up for it, bumping her arm into the other woman’s as she does.

“Sorry!”

The woman pulls her hand back and Patsy grabs the drinks.

“Must be very tired,” she says with a laugh.

Patsy tries to smile but her lips are thin. “You’re not wrong, but the other midwives would have my back if I didn’t bring these back.”

The woman (Delia? Is that what the barista said?) tilts her head and then says, “Oh, do you work at Dr. Turner’s clinic?”

Patsy starts walking towards the exit. “How do you know?”

Delia steps next to her and says, “I’ve had my share of laboring mothers who have absolutely refused hospital and insist on calling their midwives instead.” She opens the door, her dog now trailing behind her. “I’m a paramedic,” she says quickly, noticing the confused look on Patsy’s face.

The both stop outside the cafe and are met with a rather warm morning sun. 

Before Patsy can say anything Delia smiles and starts talking again. “Are you carrying that whole try by yourself?”

“I’m afraid so,” Patsy says. “The clinic isn’t too far, though, and it’s the first nice day we’ve had all spring.” 

“I just got done with a night shift, myself,” Delia says, taking a sip of her drink. “I was going absolutely mad at the firehouse and Scout needed a walk anyway.”

The dog in question is now sitting down next to Delia’s legs, looking directly up at her, leash hanging loosely from Delia’s free hand.

“You live at the firehouse?” Patsy asks, adjusting her grip on the tray of drinks.

Delia nods. “Only a few of us do, and I got lucky I guess.” She looks directly into Patsy’s eyes and smiles for what seems like the hundredth time, her dimples prominent, and Patsy’s chest swells.

“Must make it easy to answer calls,” Patsy says, trying to look anywhere except at Delia’s face. 

Delia shifts in her spot, trainers scraping against each other, and doesn’t say anything. Scout pushes her nose against her legs. The sun is warm against their necks.

Patsy frowns, looks down, and notices that Delia’s knees are shaking and that her dog is seated back on its hind legs, pawing up at Delia’s hips.

“Your dog,” Patsy says slowly. “What exactly is she doing?”

“Hm?” Delia turns her head, and Patsy can see that her face is flushed. She reaches out to pat the dog’s head and Scout begins licking the palm of her hand, bringing a paw up to her hip again. “Ah, yes,” Delia says quietly.

Patsy is about to ask what’s wrong when Delia very calmly says, “I’m going to pass out.”

“Oh!” Patsy starts to reach forward to help Delia, but Scout starts whining and she isn’t quite sure what to do with a dog quite literally in her way.

Delia closes her eyes, nods, and then falls to the ground.

Patsy drops the drinks and swears under her breath.

* * *

To Patsy’s surprise, it takes no more than a minute for Delia to come around. To her even greater surprise, there’s only one scrape on her left elbow where Scout didn’t quite catch her fall. A few people on the street had stopped in front of them but Patsy had waved them away and no one protested.

Delia stretches her legs out in front of her and sits up. Scout immediately steps over and lays herself across Delia’s lap.

“Oh no, you dropped your drinks,” Delia says.

“Never mind that!” Patsy kneels down in front of her. “Are you alright?”

“What?” Delia looks up at her. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just got a bit overheated, I think.”

“A bit overheated?” Patsy balks at her. “You fainted!”

Delia shrugs. “It happens. I should’ve paid more attention to Scout than staring at you.”

Patsy opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

Delia rolls her head around, arches her back, and then takes a deep breath. “I’m alright, really.” She then nudges her legs and Scout stands up. “Hold,” she says, holding out the leash. Scout takes the rope in her mouth and then Delia says, “Lift.” Scout tugs back on the leash, Delia gripping the other end, until she’s standing up.

“I…” Patsy’s phone vibrates in her pocket but she ignores it. Her bag slipped off of her shoulder when Delia passed out and it’s sitting haphazardly on the ground next to the spilled drinks. She clears her throat. “You’re not going anywhere in this state.”

Delia blinks slowly. “I’m fine, real--” 

Patsy kicks at her bag and moves them both closer to the side of the cafe. “Here,” she says, pulling at Delia’s empty hand and placing two fingers firmly on her wrist. Delia giggles and Patsy purses her lips.

“Well?”

“You’re heart rate is--”

“Fast?”

Patsy glares at her. “You know, you’re quite cheeky for someone who just fainted in front of a complete stranger.”

“It’s part of my charm,” Delia says, eyes twinkling.

Patsy sighs. “You’re absolutely sure you feel okay?”

“Yes. This isn’t unusual.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I  _ do _ know medical things, you know,” Delia says, twisting her arm to look at her scraped elbow, which is now dripping blood down her forearm.

“At least let me walk you back to the clinic,” Patsy says, picking up her discarded bag. “It’s closer than the firehouse and we can clean up your elbow and maybe have Dr. Turner give you a once-over.”

“I really don’t think--” 

Patsy ignores her. “It’s just up the street and to the left.”

* * *

The clinic is in a newer building made out of brick with double glass doors and long windows. There’s etching on the doors that say “St. Raymond Nonnatus Birthing Center” in white, block letters, with the clinic’s hours listed underneath.

“You know, years ago when midwives did house calls, this clinic was actually working out of a convent.”

“Really?”

Patsy nods, pulling open the door and ushering Delia and her dog in. “We still work with some of the sisters, too.”

They walk into the waiting room where a very pregnant woman and her partner are sitting in one of the corners, both huddled over a parenting magazine. Shelagh is behind the windowpane of the front desk, horn-rimmed glasses perched on her nose as she scribbles something down with a pen. Behind her, Trixie is on the phone.

“Yes, yes come in for your appointment tomorrow, and we’ll get everything sorted. Splendid. We’ll see you tomorrow!”

“There you are, Patsy,” Shelagh starts to say when she looks up, but Trixie cuts her off.

“Finally,” the blonde walks up to the opening in the window. “We thought you got lost, you took so long.”

Patsy and Delia exchange a look.

“Where are the drinks?” Trixie leans forward. “Oh, hello. Are you a patient?”

Patsy takes a breath but before she can say anything Delia starts.

“Hello, I’m Delia. I passed out in front of Patsy and she made me come here with her.”

“Oh dear,” Shelagh says quietly, standing up. “I’ll go fetch doctor.” She disappears behind a door while Trixie rushes out from behind the front desk.

“You fainted?” She asks, coming through the side door that connects the waiting room to the administrative area. “Oh sweetie you’re bleeding.” She stops in her tracks. “That’s a dog.”

Delia brings her elbow up. Most of the blood has dried but the cut is still fresh and open.

“She wasn’t out for long but I do need to clean that scrape up,” Patsy says quickly. She then turns to Delia and says, “And I want to check your heart rate and blood pressure.”

Shelagh pops her head out from the door. “Exam room two is open, and doctor says he’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Patsy gestures for the door. “Just this way.”

“This is entirely unnecessary, you know,” Delia says, following Patsy down the hallway and into the exam room.

“You’re getting a free check-up,” Patsy says, patting the exam table and indicating for Delia to sit up on it.

“It would have been free anyway,” Delia counters back.

Patsy raises an eyebrow. “Are you arguing with me?”

“Yes.”

Patsy purses her lips and swallows. She turns away from Delia to wash her hands, the back of her neck burning.

Delia drops Scout’s leash with a sigh, points to the side of the table and says, “Place.” Scout walks around and then lays down on the ground, head touching the floor. “Are you going to make me get into the stirrups, too?”

“Only if you want to,” Patsy shoots back.

Delia’s nostrils flare and Scout yawns.

“How long have you had her?” Patsy asks, slipping on gloves.

“Two years,” Delia answers. “I originally had my heart set on a labrador--they’re excellent workers, of course--but Scout just sort of...fell into my life. I got really lucky with her.”

Patsy smiles. She knows absolutely nothing about dogs or dog breeds or what constitutes as a good working dog. She prefers the independence and aloofness of cats, who don’t need to be walked or trained and can handle things perfectly well on their own.

“This might sting,” she says, reaching for Delia’s arm with an antiseptic swab. Delia doesn’t flinch at all when she dabs at the cut, and Patsy tries very, very hard not to notice just how toned the muscles in her arm are.

She doesn’t do a very good job of it.

“All clean?” Delia asks after Patsy smooths out the bandage and wipes at the last of the dried blood.

“Yes but stay put,” Patsy says sternly, pulling off her gloves. “I still have to check your blood pressure and Dr. Turner will be in to see you as well.”

Delia swings her legs back and forth, heels bouncing against the metal panes of the exam table.

There’s a short knock on the door and Dr. Turner walks in just as Patsy is finishing up.

“Well, this is a bit unusual,” he says with a sort of lopsided grin. “We don’t normally bring in patients from coffee shops.”

“I promise I’m okay,” Delia says, almost exasperatedly. “My heart rate is back to normal and I bet my blood pressure is excellent.”

Dr. Turner looks to Patsy who says, “One-ten over seventy, to be precise.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Turner steps closer, pulling his stethoscope off of his neck. “Do you mind?”

Delia shakes her head and Patsy takes a step back while he listens to her heartbeat.

“Deep breath for me, please.”

Patsy looks down at Scout, who ignores her. Maybe this dog isn’t so bad, she thinks.

“Well,” Dr. Turner says, draping his stethoscope back over his neck. “Everything sounds in order, and Nurse Mount’s initial exam is passing, too.” He rubs at his chin. “It’s just so odd that you would faint like that. Has it happened before? Does your GP know?”

“Yes and yes,” Delia says with a nod, folding her hands in her lap. “I have POTS.”

Patsy brings a hand to her forehead and rubs at her eyebrow. “Well that would have been nice to know earlier.”

“Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome,” Dr. Turner says, nodding his head in comprehension. “That explains it.”

“You should have told me,” Patsy mutters to Delia, crossing her arms. Delia surpresses a laugh but her dimples still flash, taunting Patsy.

“And you’re taking care of it?” Dr. Turner asks.

“Oh yeah,” Delia says. She gestures to Scout. “Service dog and salt tabs.”

“Good, good,” he says. “I’m more relieved; when Nurse Franklin told me that Nurse Mount had brought in a fainter, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Still,” he makes his way towards the door, “can’t hurt to see another doctor.” He smiles. “I’m not your GP, of course, but I suggest following up with yours in any case. You’ll take care of the rest of this, Nurse Mount?”

“Of course, Dr. Turner.”

Patsy turns back to face Delia as he leaves and the other woman has a devilish sort of smile on her face. Patsy tries to ignore it and continues with, “We won’t be keeping any sort of record of this, as this was rather abrupt, so you can be on your way. But do heed doctor’s advice and follow up with your primary care. Just to be safe.”

Delia slips off of the table and stands so she’s only mere inches from Patsy.

“Can I get your number?”


	2. two

“Have you texted her yet?”

“Hm?”

Trixie rolls her eyes. “That girl.  _ Delia _ .”

Now it’s Patsy’s turn to roll hers. “No, sorry, but I don’t make it much of a habit to talk to complete strangers.”

“I hardly think she counts as a stranger,” Trixie says, crossing her arms.

They’re in their shared flat, Patsy draped across an old chintz chair they had found for cheap at a rummage sale, her legs swung over one of the arms.

“Well I don’t know her,” Patsy says, and Trixie scoffs.

“You could if you bothered to message her!”

“Yes, well, that doesn’t matter anyway.” Patsy says, moving her legs over so she can sit up. “I gave her my number, not the other way around.”

It’s at that precise moment that Patsy’s phone starts to vibrate on the coffee table. The smirk that spreads across Trixie's face absolutely annoys Patsy. She wants to smack it right off.

Trixie snatches up the phone before Patsy can reach it, but the blonde looks down at the screen with a frown.

“Oh, it’s just a patient,” she sighs.

“Hand it over,” Patsy says, standing up from the chair and swatting at Trixie’s hand. She opens up the new text message on her screen and reads.

**Unknown Number: hello nurse sorry to bother you this is marcus johnston nancy’s husband i think my wifes water broke thanks**

“Christ,” Patsy mutters. 

“Everything alright?” Trixie asks.

Patsy groans. “I wish these people would  _ call _ ,” she says. “You don’t  _ text _ that your wife’s water has broken, you call!”

“Oh dear,” Trixie says. Patsy shoves her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and rushes out of the living room. “My emergency kit is still in the kitchen!”

* * *

  
  


When she goes to work at the clinic, she wears scrubs. A typical uniform for a typical nurse. But as a midwife, typical isn’t always possible. Babies don’t wait for eight am shifts to be born; they decide to make their way into the world at all hours of the day, timing be damned. Nine months, apparently, is still not enough time for fetuses to plan.

She’s still wearing her jeans when she parks her car.

Years ago, when she had told her father that she was going into nursing, she had envisioned scrubs and orthopedic shoes, linoleum floors and sickly green hospital walls.

Now, she delivers babies wherever they damn well please.

(Yes, for the most part, mother’s are able to come into the clinic, but home births have seen a resurgence since Patsy finished her training, which is how she seems to always find herself ringing doorbells at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon.)

Patsy smooths out a crease in her scrub top (she had managed to get that part, at least) and waits for the door to open.

A pale looking man with flapping brown hair answers the door.

“Oh thank god you’re here,” he says, nearly jumping aside to let Patsy in. “I tried to call an ambulance but Nancy screamed at me and said you would come here.”

“And she was right,” Patsy says with a smile. “The perks of having a midwife. Is she in the bedroom?”

A low groan emanating from up the stairs cues Patsy in and she tilts her head.

“Right then,” she says, hoisting up her bag. “Get the kettle going and I’ll see to your wife.”

  
  


It’s an easy labour; one of the easists Patsy has had in a while. She’s driving back to her flat and it’s not even eleven o’clock yet.

Nancy Johnston had been quite the trooper, although her husband certainly lacked the same stamina and passed out right as the head was crowning. It was not the first time, of course, Patsy had a fainting father, but it was annoying nonetheless. How on earth is she supposed to care for her patients if their spouses keep falling down? Maybe next time she would heed Sister Evangelina's advice and demand all men to be banned from her delivery rooms. Not that the old nun was still practicing, but still, Patsy thought, the rants she has in Dr. Turner’s office the days the nuns volunteer may have their merits.

The lights are still on when she unlocks the door to her flat but she doesn’t hear the television or any other noise indicating that Trixie is awake. Patsy rolls her eyes as she bumps the door closed with her hip. Trixie never remembered to turn any of the lights off.

She’s hanging her keys up on a wall hook when her phone goes off in her pocket, and she nearly falls over trying to turn the notification sound off before it wakes Trixie up. She holds her phone up and sees a new text message from a number she doesn’t recognize.

**Unknown Number: Hello Patsy, I hope it isn’t too late to reach out now**

Patsy furrows her brows. Too late to reach out? She kicks her shoes off and slides them over to the pile of other shoes that she and Trixie have accumulated by the door and makes her way into the kitchen to wash her hands.

**Unknown Number: This is Delia by the way**

Patsy dries her hands and drops the dish towel on the floor.

Delia.

She scrunches her nose and bends down to pick up the towel. She grips it tightly in her hand, rubbing her thumb across a fraying corner while she thinks about how she wants to proceed.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t at least  _ a little bit  _ interested in Delia. It’s not everyday that someone passes out in front of you and then still has the nerve to ask for your number.

(And maybe also because Delia is really, really cute, but Patsy tries to ignore that part.)

The digital clock on the oven door reads 11:01 and bright numbers. Patsy sighs, hangs up the dish towel, and picks up her phone.

**Patsy: Hello, Delia.**

She sends the message and purses her lips. She feels like she should say more, but she’s not exactly sure what. Is this something she should wake Trixie up for? Trixie would know what to do.

_ Just had a husband faint while his wife was giving birth, made me think of you! _

No, absolutely not.

She’s saved from having to think of something witty to say by another incoming text message.

**Delia: Would you like to meet me for a drink tomorrow morning? I promise not to pass out this time :)**

Patsy sucks in a breath. If Trixie were awake, she would have come out of her room by now, but the flat is still and quiet around Patsy. Dammit. She’s on her own.

**Patsy: I would love to take you up on that promise, but I have a patient!**

It isn’t a lie but Patsy still feels guilty.

(Or maybe disappointment?)

She sees the ellipses bubble on the screen and decides to bite the bullet.

**Patsy: But perhaps afterwards? Or really whenever we’re both not working?**

**Delia: Ok :)**

Patsy’s shoulders ease as she lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she had been holding. She’s about to send a response when another message comes through.

**Delia: Is that why you’re up so late? A patient?**

**Patsy: Yes, just delivered a baby. Home birth**

**Delia: Incredible**

Patsy starts a kettle going and finds herself pacing aimlessly around the kitchen, smiling down at her phone. Perhaps it’s better that Trixie is asleep and not here to watch Patsy look like a giddy child.

She thinks for a moment, biting her tongue. Her heart is thumping awkwardly in her chest--a little fast, a little loud, a little hard, and no amount of medical training has ever (or will ever, really) prepare her for these types of moments.

**Patsy: Yes, and the husband fainted. Made me think of you!**

She hits the send button before she can stop herself. Is that a stupid thing to say? 

It was definitely a stupid thing to say and now her entire life is ruined.

(Maybe not her entire life, but the giddy feeling has quickly dissipated and she’s starting to regret every decision she has ever made that has led up to this exact point in time.)

A couple of more minutes pass and her phone screen grows dark. The kettle starts steaming and Patsy turns the stove off before the high-pitched whistle can wake up Trixie. There are no new messages; apparently she is not a great conversationalist.

Right. Okay.

She takes the cup of tea into her bedroom, gets ready for a shower, and discards her phone behind her pillow.

* * *

  
  


If her phone goes off in the middle of the night, she doesn’t know it.

Patsy is normally a rather light sleeper but she manages to make it through the whole night without stirring. Seven hours of uninterrupted sleep is like a gift from G-d himself.

(If she believed in G-d, that is.)

By the time Patsy is fully awake--face washed, teeth brushed, and bra begrudgingly put on, Trixie is already in the kitchen. The blonde is propped up on her elbows, leaning on the countertop with a newspaper mere inches from her nose.

“You know, if you got reading glasses you wouldn’t have to keep the paper so close to your face,” Patsy says with a short laugh.

Trixie’s whole spasms as she jumps in surprise.

“Jesus, Patsy!” She heaves, palms flat on the counter to steady herself. “Excellent way to announce your awakening.”

Patsy laughs at Trixie’s expense but says, “Sorry, Trix.” She glances over at the breakfast next to Trixie’s newspaper and steals the last bit of toast.

“Excuse you.”

“Hm?” Patsy looks up at her innocently, marmalade smeared on the edge of her mouth.

“That’s a good look for you, sweetie,” Trixie says dryly, folding up her newspaper. “What time did you get in last night? I didn’t hear you.”

Patsy swallows, wiping the marmalade off with her thumb. “Not too late, just ‘round eleven.”

“Oh, that’s not bad at all,” Trixie says. “I hope you gave that husband a stern lecture, though. Honestly,” she rolls her eyes and turns to she’s now leaning her back against the kitchen counter. “ _ Texting  _ to say that his wife was in labour. What if you hadn’t seen it?”

“He got his comeuppance when he fainted while his wife was crowning,” Patsy says, scrunching her nose. “Quite annoying, really, but his wife yelled at him even after she was done pushing.”

“Good on her,” Trixie says with a nod. “So, do you have any big plans for the day?”

Patsy goes over to the drying rack by the sink and plucks out a glass, filling it up with tap water. “Well, I have to go back and see my patient, don’t I?”

Trixie rolls her eyes. “Anything else?”

“No,” Patsy says. She pauses, taking a drink of water, and then says, “Not today, at least.”

Trixie’s eyes grow wide and she gasps. “Patience Mount!”

Patsy looks down into her glass and shrugs, trying not to smile but her whole chest feels awkward again.

I cannot believe you texted her and didn’t tell me!”

“I did  _ not  _ text her,” Patsy says firmly. She pauses again, mostly to be dramatic. “She texted me.”

Trixie lets out another gasp. “You should have woken me up!” She slides across the floor to the sink and smacks Patsy across the arm.

“Ow! That was completely uncalled for,” Patsy grumbles, rubbing her bicep.

“You should have woken me up!”

“It was late,” Patsy counters. “Besides,” she frowns now, setting her glass down. “I don’t think it went very well.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…” Patsy sighs. “I may or may not have told her about the fainting husband, and, er, I may or may not have said that he reminded me of her.” She finishes with a wince, casting her eyes to the side.

“Oh, Patsy.” Trixie shakes her head. “You really are a special sort of idiot.”

Patsy moans. “I was trying to be, I don’t know, witty? Funny?” She buries her face in her hands. “She never responded after that.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“Trixie!”

Trixie nudges Patsy with her hip. “C’mon. What did she say before you mucked it all up?”

Patsy lifts her head up, face still burning as red as her hair. “She asked me for a drink, but I have a patient to see so I asked if we could meet up another time.”

“Did you specify a time?”

Patsy shakes her head. “To be fair, though, she made a fainting joke before I did.”

“Well then perhaps it’s not a lost cause afterall,” Trixie says. “Maybe she was oncall?”

“Or maybe,” Patsy dumps the rest of water down the drain, “this is precisely why I’ve been single for the last year.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It’s mid-afternoon and she’s wrapped in a towel after rinsing off in the shower when her phone goes off. She sighs, inwardly praying that it’s not another patient. 

She pushes a strand of hair that’s fallen out of the knot on top of her head behind her ear and taps on the screen.

**Delia: Sorry! I was on call last night!**

**Delia** :  **And I’m not sure when a paramedic and midwife will ever have combined free time, but trust me when I say that I can be patient ;)**

Patsy sucks in a breath and grips the phone hard between her fingers.

**Delia: P.S.**

The ellipsis bubble pops up on the bottom of the messaging app and Patsy finds herself eagerly leaning closer into the phone.

**Delia: Scout says Hi**

A picture comes through and Patsy taps on it to enlarge it. Scout is slightly out of focus, her nose pressed right up against the camera, but behind the black dog is Delia.

Delia, laughing wide with her dimples flashing.

Delia, wearing nothing but tiny shorts and a sports bra.

“Hm.” Patsy closes her eyes, dropping her phone down onto her bed. “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry that this is so short but 1. i forgot how to write and 2. i'm writing on google docs and i don't like it as much as microsoft word :(
> 
> as always please tell me when things are too american! ok thanks love u bye.

**Author's Note:**

> modern au: or, i wanted to write a story where delia has a service dog.
> 
> (yes, the dog is based off of kate lamb's irl dog)  
> (yes, pots is real, passing out like that and being fine after is normal, i know, i have pots)
> 
> um, also, according to google midwives technically aren't considered/called nurses but? nah.


End file.
